Cold Fusion
by LangdaleP
Summary: Someone is digging up graves in Londons' old cemeteries. What are they searching for and can Holmes and Watson solve the clues to beat them to the prize? An old university friend of Holmes may hold the answer but there's a problem. Her name is Irene Adler
1. Chapter 1

London in the 21st century was a city that never truly experienced darkness. Even in the longest winter nights the streetlamps and office buildings kept much of the metropolis bathed in an orange tinted half-light. During those rare cold spells when it snowed the glistening white streets and parks reflected the gaudy mix of neon and halogen even more, creating the impression that the weak winter sun had never set.

Despite this, people of a fearless nature or those engaged in criminal activity could find plenty of nooks and crannies in the ancient city where even the lights of the modern world had failed to penetrate. Darkened alleyways and inky black railway arches formed a spiders web that stretched across the urban landscape, allowing those who embraced the anonymity of the night to move free from the scrutiny of the crowd. Furthermore, whole lakes of darkness had pooled in the suburbs and districts beyond the old city walls. Growing out of a Victorian desire to rid the city of disease London's municipal cemeteries had enjoyed a renaissance recently as day time attractions for tourists but, at night, unlit, barred and gated, they were turned back in to villages of the dead, places where the average London resident wouldn't dream of setting foot.

Not surprising then that on this particular November night, the two men standing in the far eastern corner of Highgate cemetery were far from tax-paying, law-abiding citizens. In front of them was an open grave and, at the bottom of the grave, encrusted in dirt and slime was a battered, worm-eaten coffin. It had taken the two men much longer to uncover their prize than they had anticipated. The icy winter air had left the ground half frozen and, despite the cold, both men were sweating and panting from their exertions shifting the compacted earth. One of the men, the younger of the two, leaned against his shovel, his knees trembling not only from exhaustion, but from the sickly sweet smell of putrefaction now rising from the grave.

"Are you sure about this?" he murmered.

His companion grunted disapprovingly at this display of squeamishness. They were being paid handsomely for this spot of grave robbing and the man who had employed them did not take kindly to failure. Stooping down he fumbled in the canvas bag at his feet, finally extracting a heavy duty torch which he thrust into the hands of his reluctant accomplice.

"Scafidi wants everything." he growled. "So we take everything."


	2. Chapter 2

Dr John Watson was rightly proud of his medical knowledge. In general practice he had to be able to diagnose just about any ailment or disease a human being might develop. In the army he had performed battlefield surgery with rocket propelled grenades exploding outside his tent. However, in this case he had been forced to admit defeat. The condition was terminal. His laptop was definitely dead. He jabbed at the return key, more out of frustration than hope. Two nights ago he had gone to a gig at the O2 Arena with Sarah. She'd promised to upload her photos to Facebook but when Watson had returned to his flat the following day he'd discovered his laptop was stubbornly refusing to work. His first thought was that Holmes had shot it but a cursory examination had failed to show any evidence of a bullet hole.

Holmes.

Watson stopped stabbing at the keyboard. His flatmate had gone to bed just after 2am, or at least that's when the screeching of violin strings had stopped. Now, six hours later, the flat was silent. Not even the arrival of the Sunday papers had persuaded Holmes to put in an appearance. Watson swivelled in his seat. On the coffee table a few feet away, amongst a pile of journals and unwashed coffee mugs sat Holmes' laptop. He'd never specifically said Watson couldn't borrow it and he only needed it for ten minutes, fifteen at the most. Besides, Holmes really didn't have a leg to stand on. Watson had lost count of the amount of times he'd borrowed his mobile phone and then there was the whole _Scandal of Dr. Watsons' Disappearing Cornish Pasty. _Perhaps he should write that one up for his blog. As quietly as he could Watson rose from his chair and crept over to the coffee table.

Sherlock Holmes awoke to the sensation that his matress was vibrating. His momentary confusion quickly evaporated when he realised he'd fallen asleep still wearing his dressing gown. Fumbling in his pocket he retrieved his mobile phone.

_1 new message_

_Lestrade_

Holmes smiled. It may be the early hours of a Sunday morning, when most people would rather be contemplating a cup of coffee and a plate of eggs, but for Holmes nothing started the day off better than a good murder. Tapping the screen to open the message he was surprised to discover it was a photograph. The grainy image was taken from too far away for Holmes to distinguish any useful details but it seemed to show the remains of a decomposing corpse lying on a patch of frosty ground. To the left of the body was a freshly dug hole at the far end of which stood a weathered headstone. The photo was accompanied by a single line of text:

_Weird enough? Highgate Cemetery. East section._

The implication in the location of the crime was obvious. Grave robbery. That was new, even for Londons' experienced and diverse criminal fraternity. The run up to Christmas was usually a quiet time for Holmes, when the only thing that taxed his brain was coming up with a new excuse not to attend Christmas lunch at his brother Mycrofts' stuffy country pile. This might just be the distraction he needed to take his mind off the impending holiday season.

The squeal of rusty hinges as Holmes threw open his bedroom door was nearly enough to give Watson a heart attack. Hurriedly he closed the photograph that had caught his attention and replaced Holmes' laptop on the coffee table.

"Watson!" came the cry from the direction of the bathroom. "Get dressed and hail us a cab."

Wearily Watson got to his feet and wandered in to the hallway.

"I am dressed." he yelled back. "Where are we going?"

"Highgate." was the muffled response. Holmes was brushing his teeth. "No time for breakfast!"


	3. Chapter 3

Detective Inspector Lestrade stared forlornly at the scene in front of him. It was 8.30am on a Sunday morning, five weeks before Christmas and the temperature was hovering only a few, bone chilling degrees above freezing. Detective Sergeant Donovan was on holiday in Goa, which meant Lestrade had no-one to delegate to and Mrs. Lestrade was not happy about being left to do the shopping on her own. To add to his woes the naked, dead body at his feet was giving off a noxious smell, his forensic team had staged a mutiny and gone in search of some breakfast and Sherlock Holmes was about to make him look like a complete idiot. The young man, whom Lestrade privately blamed for many of his own grey hairs, was standing at the bottom of the open grave, magnifying glass in hand, examining a piece of shattered coffin lid. Lestrade knew better than to interrupt at this stage and instead turned his attention to the individual currently stooped over the dead body.

"What do you make of it Doctor?" he asked, the sound of his voice eliciting a silent scowl from Holmes.

"Very strange." the man replied.

Lestrade had met Dr John Watson six months earlier, in a derelict house in Brixton. Since then he'd come to rely on the fair-haired soldiers' ability to mediate between Holmes and the rest of the human race but sometimes the medical man could be as unhelpful as Holmes was insensitive. By way of encouragement Lestrade took his notebook and pencil from his pocket.

"Would you care to elaborate on 'strange'?"

Watson glanced at Holmes who merely shrugged and went back to scraping clods of soil from the side of the grave.

"Well, for a start, who gets buried in a coffin stark naked?" Watson began.

"Nudists." muttered Holmes.

Watson ignored him.

"Secondly, according to the headstone, this man…Theodor Kaluza was buried in 1951 but the pattern of decomposition is all wrong for a sixty year old burial."

"There are lots of things wrong with this picture." Lestrade sighed. "But you mean he should just be bare bones by now?"

"Exactly the opposite." Watson strode over to the policemans' side. "Assuming this was a legal burial Mr Kaluza should have been embalmed, which retards putrefaction, usually for decades."

Lestrade scribbled furiously.

"So, in other words, you would expect him to be less…slimey?"

"Exactly." Watson nodded. "He also appears to be missing his left ring finger. The wound looks post-mortem but I can't tell for certain because much of the hand has rotted away."

"Mr Kaluzas' repose has been far from eternal." Holmes' voice was so quiet he could have been speaking to himself.

"Well that much is obvious." Lestrade snapped. "He's just been dug up!"

"But not for the first time." Holmes waggled a piece of coffin lid at his two companions. "Whoever did this last night smashed open the coffin, probably with a shovel. Crude. Impatient. They were in a hurry. But the screws holding the lid have been removed and replaced at least once. The new screws were larger and split the wood."

"Curioser and curioser." Watson said.

"Fascinating isn't it." Holmes grinned, his pale, green eyes twinkling with mischief. This was something he could get his teeth into.

"Hang on." Lestrade interrupted. "How do you know the screws weren't replaced by the original undertaker?"

"Excellent question Inspector. I do believe you're beginning to appreciate my methods."

"And it's only taken me five years." Lestrade muttered but his sarcasm was lost on Holmes. He was in his element now and there was no stopping him.

"The back fill in this grave has been disturbed several times. There are still pieces of old turf clinging to the coffin frame and there are three…no four…separate soil horizons."

"Soil horizons?" Lestrade whispered but Watson just shrugged.

Holmes had extracted himself from the grave now and was crouched over the body at a proximity that made the other two men queasy.

"So, the question is, why dig up Theodor Kaluza not once, but twice? The first time they removed his finger so he must have been wearing a ring. Not a wedding ring though. There's no wife or child mentioned on the headstone so he was probably unmarried. It's unlikely he was buried in the nude so whoever dug him up this time took his clothes as well. It couldn't have been a pleasant task, given the state of the body so they must have been highly motivated. Something on this body must have been very valuable to someone."

Holmes raised himself up to his full height and brushed a stray curl of dark hair from his eyes. "Which just leaves one question unresolved for now."

"Which is?" Lestrade was still writing in his notebook.

"Why does the name Theodor Kaluza ring such a loud bell?"

Holmes began to pace, his fists clenched, his wiry frame hunched in concentration.

"Who found the body?" he asked.

"Cemetery attendant." Lestrade replied. "The man is seventy if he's a day and has angina. They've taken him to hospital."

Holmes tutted with impatience.

"Go and interview him. I need to know what he knows." he pulled his mobile from his pocket. "Damn it, no signal."

Without being asked Watson retrieved his own phone from inside his jacket.

"No signal here either."

Holmes rolled his eyes.

"Bloody graveyards! Come on Watson, I need an internet connection and a cup of coffee wouldn't go amiss. It's freezing out here."

Lestrade watched in silence as the two men hurried away towards the cemetery gates, the young Doctor struggling to keep up with the long stride of his taller friend. It wasn't even nine o'clock in the morning. He'd spent the last two hours staring at a rotting corpse and now he got to go and sit in a draughty hospital waiting room on the off-chance that the elderly cemetery attendant had anything useful to tell him. This was not shaping up to be a pleasant Sunday.


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn't unusual for Holmes and Watson to spend much of their time together in silence. Both men were prone to introspection for different reasons and thus found each others' company amenable and even comforting, although neither of them would admit as much. However, as they walked back down Highgate Hill towards the shops and cafes of Holloway Road, Watson was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. It wasn't the macabre nature of the case that worried him and it wasn't anything that Holmes had done, for once. Watson was being plagued by his own guilty conscience.

Before they had been summoned to the cemetery by Lestrade, Watson had taken the opportunity presented by Holmes' Sunday morning lie-in to borrow his flatmates' laptop. He'd fully intended to log in to Facebook to view Sarahs' photos of their date the previous Friday but, whilst hunting Holmes' chaotic, icon strewn desktop for the web browser, he'd come across something he hadn't been expecting. A single image file, tucked away in the bottom right hand corner of the screen.

_the-woman_

The filename was enigmatic enough on its own. The fact that it belonged to Holmes, a man who only spoke of women if they were part of a case and who barely seemed to register their existence in his life, made it a temptation Watson couldn't resist.

He'd opened the file.

"Now what?" Holmes' annoyed cry broke in to the Doctors' thoughts.

"Lestrade again?" Watson asked as Holmes snatched his mobile from his pocket and jabbed angrily at the screen.

There was a momentary silence.

"No." Holmes replied, his anger gone as suddenly as it had arrived. For a moment he appeared flustered and unsure of himself, a side of Holmes his friend had not seen before, but the impression was only fleeting. Within moments Holmes seemed to recover himself.

"What do you make of that?" he said, handing Watson his phone.

On the screen was a picture message. The image of a man dressed in the robes of a Franciscan monk was followed by a few short lines of text:

_Something's lost and can't be found  
Please, St. Anthony, look around._

_Lunch? Bring a bottle and that delightful Dr Watson too._

Watson scrolled to the message information but the callers' number had been blocked. At least he was familiar with the imagery.

"It looks like a Catholic prayer card." he said.

"St Anthony of Padua." responded Holmes. "Patron Saint of travellers. Finder of missing people and lost possessions."

"You think this has something to do with the case?"

"Hmmm, don't know yet." Holmes replied. "Either way Watson, we've been summoned to lunch."

"Oh god, not by your mother again?"

Holmes chuckled.

"I don't think Mummy has forgiven us for last time yet." he said. "We'd better stop at an off licence on the way, a good one too. You're about to have lunch with someone far more intimidating than Mother Holmes."


	5. Chapter 5

Holmes loved puzzles because puzzles required solving. Whether it was a bank robbery, a murder or a particularly difficult crossword Holmes needed puzzles like other people needed oxygen. Without them his brain began to suffocate and die. When there was no crime to solve the world seemed drained of colour, the days seemed interminably long and the nights would be filled with reminiscences of things he wished he could forget but which his mind seemed to cling to with the desperation of a dying man: a warm smile; a gentle voice; dark green eyes and long chestnut hair.

All too frequently his imagination would drag him back to those warm, dimly lit rooms in Cambridge where the air was heavy with the scent of clematis blossoms and freshly fallen rain. His body would tingle at the memory of her breath on his cheek and the satiny smoothness of her evening gown as it slipped through his fingers. He'd never considered himself a masochist but, when he recalled the rise and fall of her breasts as she slept and the sweat from their love-making shimmering on her skin, he wondered why he tortured himself with such images. It had been one night, more than a decade ago and they had never spoken of it since. He knew that she loved him and that she knew he could never return her feelings with the same intensity, which made her continued friendship even more remarkable. What he couldn't understand was that the thought that one day he might lose her was unbearable to him. For the last twelve years he'd lived a lie, the lie of not caring, of being a heartless man. He put on a front every day, not only to protect himself from the distractions of the mundane world but also to shield her from the more dangerous elements of his vocation. He knew that she was a capable woman and that she considered his attitude old-fashioned and patronising. Her own job brought with it its fair share of risk and adventure and she was very successful at it but she was also his weak spot and now that Moriarty had made it clear he knew as much the last place Holmes wanted to be was in a cab, driving north through the suburbs of London. However, he couldn't ignore the timing of her text message. She wasn't the kind of woman who made spur of the moment lunch dates and she had a knack of tracking his movements that would make Mycroft envious. No, if she wanted to see him now it was because she knew something about Highgate and the mysterious Theodor Kaluza.

"Here we are gents." the cabbies' voice broke in to his thoughts. "Flask Walk. Sorry I can't get you any closer. The street's off limits to cabs."

"Here's fine." Holmes replied. "Pay the man Watson." he said and, ignoring his friends indignant protests, he climbed out of the cab and set off down the narrow, cobbled lane to number three, Flask Walk, the premises of Adler & Sons, Antique Book & Map Dealers.


	6. Chapter 6

Irene Adler was sat alone on the floor of her lounge when she heard the sound of a car door slamming further up the road. A London black cab if she wasn't mistaken. One of the newer, diesel models whose doors locked automatically when you closed them. Uncrossing her legs she got to her feet, careful not to disturb the stack of books and journals by her side. The heavy net curtains at her window allowed her to look down on to the street whilst maintaining her own privacy and from where she stood she could see the two men as they turned in to the lane.

The first time she had seen Sherlock Holmes had been the night of the Alumni Ball at Kings' College, Cambridge. He was standing outside the formal dining room, smoking a cigarette, looking for all the world like an English Literature graduate with a fondness for romantic poetry. She'd soon discovered her initial assessment of him had been wrong but the unkempt brown curls, the single breasted suit and the open-necked shirt were all still there twelve years later. He wore a heavy tweed coat to protect himself from the cold and tied around his neck was a tattered blue scarf that had seen better days. Fashion was one of the many things that had passed Sherlock Holmes by and his look was in contrast to that of his companion. Irene had not met Dr. John Watson before but his confident stride, tanned complexion and neat haircut marked him out as a military man, as did his clothes. The dark blue jeans, brown leather jacket and boots were all classic rather than cutting edge designs but they were obviously all fairly new, purchased by a man who hadn't been on Civvie Street for very long.

Irene moved away from the window as she heard the sound of her front door opening. Sherlock never rang the bell and she'd never worked out how he regularly by-passed the shops' burglar alarm. He'd have made a very successful criminal in another life she thought with a smile as she wandered in to the kitchen to make the tea.

Watson had kept quiet for the journey to Flask Walk but, as he ascended the stairs to the flat above Adler & Sons, his curiosity was becoming almost intolerable. First, there was that cryptic text message with its Catholic imagery. Second, there was Holmes' description of the person they had come to meet. Someone more intimidating than the matriarch of the Holmes clan? The idea was terrifying. Finally, there was Holmes' mood. His prolonged silences were nothing new but something was bothering him more than usual. Was it sadness? Regret? Maybe it was even fear. As an army doctor Watson had witnessed and lived through almost every emotion a man could experience but Holmes wasn't like other men. Even though Watson frequently berated him for his apparent lack of empathy he knew his friend wasn't without feeling. He just experienced things in a different way.

They had reached the top of the stairs now and only a bead curtain separated them from the flat beyond. Inside Watson could hear the sound of clinking china and the quiet strains of violin music.

"Are you decent?" Holmes yelled, making Watson jump.

"No." came the amused response. "I'm a heathen and a shameless reprobate."

Holmes chuckled at what was obviously a private joke and led his friend inside, down the short hallway and in to the kitchen. A young woman was stood at a table in the middle of the room, stirring the contents of a teapot. Watson watched open-mouthed as his friend moved to embrace her. It wasn't the obvious affection that Holmes displayed, or even the tender kiss he planted on her cheek. It was the fact that Watson knew her, or at least he recognised her. She was older now but other than that she was as beautiful as she had looked in the photograph on Holmes' laptop.

"John." Holmes' voice snapped him back to the present. "This is Irene Adler, an old university friend of mine."

"Hello John." Irene stepped forward to shake his hand. "It's nice to meet you at last."

"Likewise." Watson stuttered, causing Holmes to shoot him a quizzical glance. "I mean, Sherlock has told me all about you."

"No, I haven't."

Irene laughed and beckoned him to sit down.

"Don't worry John." she said. "I'm more than used to Sherlocks' paranoia."

"It's not paranoia." Holmes muttered. He'd wandered over to her stereo and was flicking through the radio pre-set buttons. "I just have a well developed sense of privacy."

"Your own privacy at least." Irene replied as she began to pour the tea.

"Black, two sugars please." he said, clicking the last button. The classical music vanished. In its place the unmistakable garble of the police band radio filled the kitchen. Holmes looked triumphant. Irene merely rolled her eyes and took a seat next to Watson.

"Doctor, how long has it been since you last ate something that wasn't a takeaway?" she asked.

As if in response to her question Watsons' stomach grumbled loudly.

"There's no time for lunch." Holmes said testily.

"Theodor Kaluza, I know." Irenes' voice was calm. She was obviously immune to Holmes' ability to push other peoples' buttons and Watson was beginning to understand why Holmes found her company challenging and irresistible at the same time. "You want to know why someone's dug him up. Again." Irene continued. "I thought you might remember but then you were never very good at physics."

"Ohhh." A light seemed to come on in Holmes' brain. "Ohhh."

Frantically he started to tug off his coat and scarf.

"Kaluza, physics, University College, London, 1940...something or other. He was fired from the faculty."

"And his lab burned down a week later." Irene pointed in the direction of the lounge. "Everything I have is in there. You can refresh your memory while the Doctor and I have lunch."

Watson watched as his friend disappeared in to the ajoining room. Now he too was curious to know why Theodor Kaluza had been fired and how that might explain someone digging him up sixty years later. However, that wasn't the most pressing question on his mind.

"So, he said, turning his attention back to Irene. "What are we cooking?"


	7. Chapter 7

Holmes settled himself in to the familiar and well worn warmth of Irenes' leather sofa. Even after so many years the upholstery still smelled faintly of her fathers' pipe tobacco. There was a stack of books and papers at his feet but for the moment he ignored them. Instead he let his eyes drift closed and allowed his mind to wander back to a chilly lecture hall in Emmanuel College, Cambridge, fifteen years earlier. Irene would have only been seventeen at the time and Holmes wondered if she had been there. He was a year older, a first year undergraduate, enthusiastic and idealistic and a two hour presentation on obscure mysteries and conspiracy theories had been right up his street. He couldn't recall the name of the lecturer, a classics professor who made ends meet writing populist and rather salacious true crime novels. The riddle of Theodor Kaluzas' dismissal from the Department of Physics at University College, London had occupied fifteen minutes of the lecture.

Born in 1901 in Lodz, Poland, Theodor Sebastien Kaluza had earned his Doctorate at the University of Warsaw in 1923. A talented scientist, he had worked in Poland until 1938, when the increasing threat from Nazi Germany had forced him to flee to England where he had taken up a teaching and research post at UCL. There he had been one of the many scientists working on Britains' fledgling radar programme. But it wasn't until the end of the war that his career took what was, for Holmes at least, its most interesting turn. The official story had involved an illicit affair with a male undergraduate but many of the facts seemed inconsistent, even inexplicable. What was known was that on the night of March 3rd, 1945 Theodor Kaluza had been forcibly ejected and then locked out of his own laboratory. At almost the same time a burglar had forced the front door of his flat in Chenie Mews, Bloomsbury and ransacked his study, apparently fleeing empty-handed. On week later a fire had broken out in the basement boiler room of UCL's physics building and Kaluzas' lab had been completely destroyed.

The suspicions of the conspiracy theorists had fallen on SOE, the precursor of MI5. During the war they had secretly funded many scientific projects including Kaluzas' work on radar. Had he been working on something else? Something far more dangerous? Something that had necessitated the ruining of his career and the destruction by arson of his laboratory. Could it be that the people who had broken in to his coffin last night believed that whatever Kaluza had discovered, he had literally taken his secret to the grave?

Holmes opened his eyes and glanced in the direction of the kitchen. Irene was still sat at the table with Watson. The two of them appeared deep in conversation, Irene leaning close to the young doctor, chin cupped casually in one hand, her dark green eyes totally focussed on Watsons' face as he spoke. Holmes smiled to himself. There was a narcotic quality to being with Irene. She could make you feel like the most desirable man in the room and that thrill was addictive for many men. It was a feeling Holmes had experienced and been swept away by once before. It had changed his life and his relationship with his brother Mycroft forever. He felt no regret over that but he did have doubts. Leaving her had been the right thing to do twelve years ago but had he done it because he was stronger than other men or because he was more cowardly? Holmes sighed and turned his attention to the pile of books on the floor. He wasn't going to get anywhere with his case if he allowed himself to be so easily distracted. Picking up the first dusty hardback he examined it sceptically.

"_Under Cover of Darkness: Murder and Mystery in Wartime London."_

Holmes rolled his eyes. The book sounded as intellectually rigorous as a Sunday tabloid. He turned to the main title page and was surprised to see that it was signed by none other than the old classics professor, who'd given that lecture fifteen years earlier.

"_To Irene, _

_Best of luck with your future studies. _

_Prof. I. V. Scafidi."_


	8. Chapter 8

Watson was peeling potatoes, something he hadn't done since basic training. The best a potato could hope for, if it ended up in the kitchen of 221b Baker Street, was to be pricked with a fork and thrown in to the microwave. Irene had already filled him in on the wartime career of Theodor Kaluza and now she was sitting beside him carefully dissecting a cauliflower. There was a chicken cooking in the oven and the tantalising smell of roasting meat was beginning to waft through the warm air of the kitchen. Domesticity suited Watson far more than it did Holmes. Although he enjoyed their adventures and, as Mycroft had suggested on several occasions, would be bored without them, Watson missed the rituals of ordinary life: regular meal times; quiet evenings in front of the TV; a bathroom that didn't look like a chemistry laboratory; a girlfriend. He and Sarah still hadn't got any further than the odd drunken kiss and he was starting to suspect that being kidnapped by the Black Lotus gang had put something of a dampener on their budding romance.

Pausing in his peeling duties he glanced over at Irene. She'd finished with the cauliflower and had started on a head of broccoli. A mischievous smile had formed on her lips.

"Ask." she said.

"Sorry?" Watson attempted nonchalance and failed. "Ask what?"

Irenes' smile widened.

"You want to ask me about Sherlock." she said, dropping a handful of greens in to the saucepan by her side. "You've been his flatmate for six months, faced death together, faced Mother Holmes together and you still feel like you know nothing about him."

"I wouldn't say that." Watson replied.

Irene looked at him, her warm, dark eyes unwavering yet gentle.

"OK, I would." he sighed.

"It's like that for everyone." she explained. "Even when he tells you something, he actually tells you nothing."

Watson thought he detected a hint of sadness in her voice.

"Wait. Were you and he ever..? Did you..?"

Irene laughed.

"Sherlock and I aren't university friends." she said. "Well I was at university, Sherlock wasn't. We actually met when he attempted to break into my rooms."

"Wow." Watson was genuinely taken aback.

"It's a long story." Irene cleared away the last of the broccoli. "Maybe I'll tell you about it one day."

"Tell him what?"

The sound of Sherlocks' voice caught them both by surprise. He was standing in the kitchen doorway, a sheaf of journal articles clutched in one hand.

"About why you were dressed as an elderly Cambridge don and why you were pretending to have slipped on the stairs outside my rooms."

"Not my finest hour." Sherlock admitted. "I got the voice completely wrong."

Watson laughed and shook his head.

"So, have you solved the case yet?" he asked.

Holmes threw the papers on to the kitchen table, jabbing a long, pale finger at the top sheet. On it was an old black and white photograph.

"Kaluza didn't publish a single paper during the war." he said. "So we'll need to track down his old colleagues."

Watson studied the picture. It showed a group of five men, stood around a cluttered, untidy desk. Beneath the image was a list of names and a label below that.

"_The Tandem Club. October 1944"_

"So, he was a member of a cycling club?" Watson offered.

Holmes laughed.

"Five men riding tandems Watson?" he chuckled. "What did they do? Take turns?"

"OK genius, what's the Tandem Club then?"

"I have no idea." Holmes said, excited to have yet another aspect to the mystery. "Irene, where's your laptop?"

"Bedroom." she replied.

Holmes disappeared back through the kitchen door.

"He knows the way then." Watson murmured.

Irene smiled enigmatically but before she could reply a phone began to ring.

Lestrade was used to Watson answering Holmes' mobile but on this occasion the person on the other end of the phone took him completely by surprise.

"Sherlocks' phone." the voice was playful, its tone mischievous, its owner definitely female.

"Err...hello?" Lestrade stuttered. "I was calling to speak to Sherlock."

"Oh, he's in the bedroom. Hang on."

Lestrade stared at his screen. He'd definitely called the right number but what was Holmes doing in a woman's bedroom, a woman who knew him well enough to answer his phone? There were muffled sounds from the other end of the line, laughter and a familiar voice admonishing someone called Irene for 'toying with an officer of the law.' Lestrade sighed. Definitely the right number.

"Holmes here."

"Sherlock, where are you?" Lestrade demanded.

"In a bookshop." the detective replied matter of factly. "I'm putting you on speaker. What have you found out?"

"That I really don't like hospitals." Lestrade said.

"Apart from that."

"Well." Lestrade flicked through his notes. "Turns out the old cemetery attendant was as sharp as a tack. Nothing he could tell us about last night but you were right. Kaluza had been disturbed once before. Back in 1953 there was a spate of grave robberies in London. He was one of three dug up."

In the kitchen at Flask Walk, Holmes was already typing on Irenes' laptop.

_Grave robbery 1953 London_

_13,568 results_

"What else?" he asked.

"Well, they caught the guy. Turned out to be a right nutter. The judge committed him to Crown Point asylum and he's still there. The press had a field day. Two of his 'victims' were Jewish. You can imagine how that went down so soon after the war."

Watson was still staring at the old photo Holmes had found earlier. Five men, some in lab coats, some plainly dressed. An old desk covered in papers and scientific instruments, a periodic table pinned to the wall behind them and, beneath the photo, their names.

_Brendan Collins, Theodor Kaluza, Michael MacLeod, Hans Orsted, Aahron Mezvinsky_

"Sherlock." he whispered. "It may be just a coincidence but look at the names."

Holmes grabbed the photo from his friend. It didn't take him long to realise the significance of Watsons' discovery.

"Lestrade, who was in the third coffin?"

"The what?"

"The other grave that was desecrated. Who did it belong to?"

"Oh." Lestrade winced. He hadn't thought to ask that question.

"Never mind." Holmes sighed. "Find out the name of the grave robber and meet me at Crown Point in an hour."

He hung up before Lestrade could protest.

"Want some company?" Watson asked.

"No." Holmes replied, pulling on his coat. Irene had already picked up her laptop and a faint whirring noise from the lounge told him she had begun printing off the results of his internet search. "You enjoy your lunch."

"Well, that's very kind of you."

"And find out everything you can about this Tandem Club."

Watson sighed.

"I knew there had to be a catch."

"I'll see you at home later." Sherlock called from the hallway. "Don't forget to take notes."

There was a brief pause and then the sound of the front door slamming shut. Watson turned to Irene. She didn't seem in the least bit bothered that Sherlock hadn't said goodbye.

"Glass of wine?" he asked

"Oooh, lovely." she replied.


	9. Chapter 9

As he sat in the chilly, sparsely furnished TV room of Crown Point asylum Holmes began to regret leaving Watson at Irene's flat. It had taken him an hour to reach the old Victorian hospital overlooking Streatham Common and not once had it occurred to him that he would find himself out of his depth without the assistance of his friend. Lestrade had tried to warn him when he had arrived but he had insisted on seeing for himself even though institutions like Crown Point always made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

The old man sat in front of him had been sectioned by the courts sixty years ago and had therefore never stood trial for the crime of grave robbery. Yet he was still here, a helpless case according to the doctor who had met Holmes and Lestrade at the reception. A paranoid schizophrenic who'd never responded to treatment, who'd raved abut conspiracies and the end of the world for more than thirty years, had attempted to escape several times, but who had long since slipped in to the silent, distant world of senile dementia. If he had anything useful to tell them it was locked deep inside his head and Holmes just didn't possess the expertise needed to retrieve it. The man hadn't even acknowledged their presence, his watery blue eyes focussed on some far away point beyond the window, his hands curled limply in his lamp.

"William?" Holmes spoke quietly as they had been instructed to by the doctor. "Mr Hinton?"

No response. Holmes sighed and turned to Lestrade who was hovering nearby, notebook in hand, looking as helpless as he felt.

"What did you find out?" he asked.

"I got a PC to locate the original report." Lestrade replied. "It's so old he had to go and dig in out of the basement files. William Hinton, janitor at UCL, aged twenty-two at the time of his arrest. Desecrated three graves: Theodor Kaluza at Highgate, Michael McLeod in Tower Hamlets and Aahron Mezvinsky in Stoke Newington."

"Abney Park." the old man's voice made both of them jump. "The cemetery's called Abney Park you idiot, not Stoke Newington."

Holmes smiled in spite of himself. Talk of his crime, the names of the dead men, must have triggered something in William Hinton's memory. He was leaning forward in his chair now, staring at Holmes with an unsettling intensity.

"You're not a copper are you" he said.

"No, I'm not." Holmes replied "But I do want to know why you dug up those men."

The old man shrugged, his attention drifting away for a moment.

"So long ago." he murmered.

"William." Holmes grabbed the old man's arm. "Someone dug up Theodor Kaluza last night and I need to know why."

"Tandem." the word seemed to fall from his lips, more an involuntary response to a memory than a reply but his expression suddenly changed from indifference to fear. "The Tandem Club. You must stop them from doing it again."

"Who the hell are the Tandem Club?" Lestrade interrupted, causing Holmes to shoot him an angry glare.

"What did they do William?"

"The experiment. It was meant to be destroyed in the fire, they told me that's all I had to do, but Kaluza, oh he was a smart one." William laughed. "So very smart."

"So he smuggled his work out of the lab before you could burn it down and then he hid it somewhere." Holmes mused. "Who told you to set the fire?"

The old man shifted uncomfortably in his seat, casting a wary glance at Lestrade.

"OK." Holmes whispered reassuringly. "OK, what about the experiment? What was so important about it?"

"The temperature of course!" now it was William's turn to grab Holmes' arm, his grip much stronger than his age would suggest. "They got it to work and it nearly destroyed everything."

"Got what to work?" Holmes patience was starting to wear thin but the old man merely slumped back in his chair, his eyes empty again, his shoulders slumped in exhaustion. Holmes sighed and shook his head.

"He's a school janitor Sherlock." Lestrade muttered. "He probably wouldn't know one end of a Bunsen burner from another. Not to mention he's as mad as a hatter."

"He knew enough to be scared." Holmes replied. "So scared he dug up three coffins looking for whatever Kaluza was working on."

"But it's been sixty years. No-one would go to all that trouble now."

"Oh, I don't know." Holmes cast one final look at William Hinton. "I can think of one person."

Irene watched from her living room window as Dr Watson strode away up the lane towards the main road, a bundle of maps and papers tucked under one arm. It was nearly 4pm and beginning to get dark. She wanted a bath and a cup of tea before resuming her research. Their initial hope, that one of Theodor Kaluza's colleagues might still be alive, had proven fruitless. A succession of internet searches, Irene reading off the screen as Watson took copious notes, had tracked down all the members of the Tandem Club to their separate graves. Irene turned to study the list now pinned to her wall.

_Theodor Kaluza – Physicist – Buried Highgate 1949_

_Brendan Collins – Physicist – Buried Kensal Green 1947_

_Aahron Mezvinsky – Theoretical Chemist – Buried Abney Park 1951_

_Hans Orsted – Mathematician – Buried Kensal Green 1950_

_Michael MacLeod – Cartographer – Buried Tower Hamlets 1953_

What could a small group of scientists, a mathematician and a map maker possibly have been involved in that required such desperate measures to cover it up? The burning down of UCL's physics lab would not have gone unremarked, especially in 1945 when the whole country was still in the grip of war-time paranoia. Irene sighed. If only they had had more luck finding references to the Tandem Club but there was nothing in any of her books or online. Just that one old photograph. Hopefully Holmes would have better luck, make the connection that was alluding her. His knowledge of the physical sciences could be woeful at times but he was capable of making much greater leaps of logic than she was. Her job, which he had always disapproved of, mostly consisted of historical research with the occasional act of deception thrown in for good measure. Solving mysteries of this kind, grave robberies, arson, dangerous science experiments, really wasn't her area of expertise.

A noise from downstairs interrupted her train of thought. Her letterbox rattled briefly then something hit her doormat with a light thump. Must be the evening free paper, she thought. She would go and fetch it after her bath and peruse the listings over that cup of tea. She had been out of the country for the last three weeks and had missed several important book fairs but with any luck there would still be some local events on before the Christmas holidays. For some reason the company of Sherlock Holmes always left her in need of some serious retail therapy.


	10. Chapter 10

"Nice lunch?" Holmes watched as Dr Watson pinned a map of Greater London to their living room wall. On it, marked in Irene's neat handwriting were the names and locations of each member of the Tandem Club.

"It was very good, yes." Watson replied. "We even had apple pie for pudding. Home made too."

"Lucky you." Holmes replied, surreptitiously sniffing at his shirt. He smelled like a hospital.

"And what did you find out on your cold, lonely trip to South London?" Watson had obviously enjoyed his afternoon and was determined to rub it in.

"Kaluza and his colleagues were working on an experiment. Something that went very wrong, or very right, depending on your point of view. The fire was meant to destroy their work but Kaluza smuggled at least part of it out of the lab and hid it somewhere."

"And that's what our grave robbers are looking for?

"It must be buried in one of those cemeteries, or at least someone thinks it is." Holmes flicked through the sheets of paper on the desk in front of him. Each sheet contained a short biography of the individual members of the Tandem Club. They didn't seem to have much in common, separate nationalities, different universities, different disciplines and the last man in particular seemed to be the odd one out. Michael MacLeod, Scotsman, cartographer. He had worked for the Ordnance Survey office during the war and in 1945, the year of Theodor Kaluza's fall from favour, he had been given the job of re-triangulating the whole of the British Isles, essentially, checking and re-drawing every map of the country. Irene would probably have some examples of his work tucked away in her basement files. But what was a cartographer doing hanging out in a club for science nerds and was it just a coincidence that William Hinton went on his grave robbing spree only two months after MacLeod had been buried? He opened his laptop and started typing. MacLeod's presence in the story bothered him and he needed to do some more digging.

Watson flopped down in to his favourite armchair and watched as his friend worked diligently on his computer. Pinning up the map had made his wounded shoulder ache and he flexed his fingers against the pain.

"Any idea what this experiment was yet?" he asked.

"No. Lestrade has cars posted at all the cemeteries tonight but we need more data." Holmes replied.

"Well, if the fire was a cover up by SOE maybe Mycroft can help." Watson suggested against his better judgement.

Holmes grunted.

"Even if he did know he'd deny it, or make me beg. Either option is not acceptable."

"So, we just wait?"

"You're waiting." Holmes replied, keen to bring the conversation to an end. "I'm thinking."

Irene felt light-headed. Her heart pounded in her chest, a cold sweat pricked the back of her neck. The envelope, which had been pushed through her letterbox an hour earlier sat on her kitchen table, empty. The CD which it had contained was now in her laptop, playing over and over again.

_"Good evening Miss Adler."_ the anonymous voice was male, educated, the accent identified the speaker as Greek. _"I apologise for the impersonal nature of this communication. If these photographs are any evidence it is my misfortune that we cannot meet face to face."_

She scrolled through the images on her screen. Some of them were over ten years old, every one of them taken in a different place, all of them containing the same two figures: Irene and Sherlock enjoying a drink in a café in Cambridge, the two of them in a library in Berlin, at a museum in Edinburgh, sharing a water taxi in Venice after an overnight flight from Heathrow, Irene sleeping briefly with her head on Sherlock's shoulder.

The voice was continuing.

_"I was sure that the problem of the Tandem Experiment would attract the interest of Sherlock Holmes and, whilst I feel confident that we will succeed despite his involvement, my employer has demanded an insurance policy and that is where you come in Miss Adler. The recovery of lost artefacts is your particular talent, a talent I am told you share with many members of your family. Enclosed on this CD is all the surviving information on the Tandem Experiment. Find and retrieve the formula for us before Sherlock Holmes does and your friendship can continue unhindered for now. Should he retrieve it first my employer has made it clear that drastic measures will have to be taken to relieve him of the prize."_

Irene jabbed the Escape key on her keyboard, unwilling to see or listen to any more. For all these years, ever since Cambridge, someone had been watching them. The first name that entered her mind was Mycroft but this wasn't his style. He might be devious and manipulative, he might insist on calling her Yoko every time they had the misfortune to bump in to one another but he loved his younger brother and wouldn't threaten his life. He certainly wouldn't turn to her for help. But whoever it was they were thorough enough to have Holmes and perhaps even herself under detailed surveillance. It was no coincidence that the envelope had been delivered minutes after Watson had left. She needed to warn Holmes but from now on she couldn't risk contacting him directly or having him try to reach her.

Irene took a deep breath and pulled herself together. Rising from the kitchen table she moved through to her living room and retrieved the print out from her printer. If this was all the information available on this mystery they were in trouble. Just a few short paragraphs, a biography of a Swedish academic, an Edwardian physicist called Johannes Tandem. Irene had never heard of him or his work but she knew someone who might have. Father Marco Quillici, former head of the Vatican Observatory, now teaching at St Anthony's Catholic seminary in Chelsea. Walking through to her bedroom she pulled her overnight bag out from under her bed and began to pack. It was time to check in with the office.


End file.
